The Fox and the Tramp
by CaptainAsche
Summary: FoxKit!Reader-Insert: A (so far 2 chapter) fanfiction commission for jamthefox on deviantArt. The cold has overtaken you, snow holding you captive in the receding daylight. No one stops for a lone fox that can't make a sound... Then he comes, the bold, bright Frenchman who says he's going to help you. But when you awake it becomes clear that you are helping each other to get by.
1. Chapter 1

A bone-deep chill, burning even as it rendered your extremities numb, was the only thing that could be felt from the frozen white below you. Even the afternoon sunlight shining through the grey of the loitering cloud cover couldn't warm your skin enough to combat the effect of the snow that surrounded your still form. Eyes barely open to rosy slits and your lashes fringed with frost, you watched shadows retreat along the snowbank across the iced and empty road.

The painful twitch of every movement made rising an ambitious aspiration. Steam unfurled from your breath, the only part of your being that felt warm as it rolled over your dark paws. You knew then that you'd been abandoned, left for dead in the frozen land where only merciless bipedal humans were free to tread. The red-orange fur on your cheeks was dusted with powder-snow that twirled in the air like motes of dust at the twitching of your whiskers.

Wet, slush-buffered footsteps drew your attention, though you didn't bother to try and look up this time; five pairs of similar feet had passed you without a glance already. Now that your tail and rear legs were nearly cocooned in crisp, refrozen snow, your chances felt no better. A shadow fell over you, darkening the already dim view of a pair of black rubber galoshes. The figure who owned the shadow leaned down, garnering you the sight of a white, ruffled necktie and powder-blue vest.

"Je vais vous aider, mon petit renard,"1 an airy voice muttered as warm hands drew beneath you, scooping you into the arms of the Frenchman whose blonde hair bounced at his shoulders as he hurried along the path. "Don't worry," he insisted. The warmth and voice lulled your mind to rest along with your tired body.

Dawn, and the red-crowned sun peeked over a white-painted windowsill at your bundled form. Green knit cloth, just itchy enough in its woolenness to goad you awake, was tucked beneath your curled body and over all but your narrow muzzle and orange and white face. Your upper body felt overheated, while your feet were ice from the dewclaws down. You yawned, pink tongue turning up like that of other canines, and blinked your peach-blossom eyes rapidly, unsure of the white, frilled room with its powder blue furniture.

There were plush, caricature animals along a shelf. Pressed against the wall was a barred crib that reminded you of a cage, and green star stickers littered the ceiling, a scarce glow dribbling from them into the sunrise's rose-colored light. A picture frame, something you'd never seen the likes of, was propped up on the painted surface of a dresser, encasing and displaying a portrait that looked much like a father and son. The man in the photograph was the same blonde who'd saved you who knew how long ago.

This was a human dwelling, off limits as your father would say. Well, where was he now to protect you from this? Where had any of your family run to when the snows had separated you? Wandering was verboten2, but still you'd ventured out, intrigued by the glimpse of thatched roofing from over the deep, lively green of pine treetops. And now you paid for it with the chill that was only just vanishing with its ache and leaving behind a rattling cough that brought the blonde-haired bypasser rushing in to fuss over you.

France, he was called, according to the houseguests who trailed him hesitantly. Also Francis, Francypants and Bloody Git, which sounded like odd names... You laid your head on your outstretched paws and watched the three nations interact curiously, the three varying in blondeness but all at about the same level of maturity. After a moment of jest, Francis knelt beside your windowsill, taking the folded ends of the green scarf you occupied in his fingers to carry you like a small, furry parcel.

As you were whisked from the chilly glass and cozy heater, the green-eyed member of the trio, called Britain and Iggy by the louder man in the pilot's jacket, grumbled something with a sigh. "I would never have pegged you for a man with an animal loving side. You always seem too busy chasing women- and men- to bother with familial relationships anyway." Something about his words drew your somewhat foggy mind back to the father-son portrait... Francis raised a carefully groomed eyebrow at his comely-eyebrowed frenemy, shooting back, "I love all things that are beautiful. And to protect a thing one loves is a man's duty, non?" He said this with a sad tone that alarmed his companions, but a flip of his long hair and a soft laugh later he'd convinced them to say nothing.

Britain and the American both turned to go and glimpsed the picture frame before realizing what this room was. You didn't understand why they paused and gave a look to the Frenchman before leading the way out to the living room and past the door of a room decorated with maple leaf print and hockey memorabilia. "Matthew called," caterpillar-brows offered with something that wasn't quite a smile. "He's doing well. But like this ungrateful git," he snapped, flicking America on the head, "He's at that stage where he wants to be on his own and living independently. I mean, we've all invited him to World Meetings, but Canada never makes an appearance..." Gently but with a twitching motion Francis lowered you to the right arm of a chair, sighing, "Yes, well she is not Matthew. I don't expect gratitude, but I'll settle for companionship, mes amis3."

Settled into the curved nook cradled in the center of the chair's right arm, you nuzzled France's hand weakly as he stroked your head with a finger. "You must eat, mon renard," he insisted, all the while wearing the smile that cracked at the edges with worry. "It will help you to regain your strength and fight off this fever." As he stirred a bowl of steaming, cloudy liquid that smelled of poultry and cream, the two nations who'd followed him into the softly colored room of memories took seats quietly at opposite corners of the living area, each looking anywhere but at the focused Frenchman.

Bringing the thick broth to you via a plastic-bowled spoon the same blue as the walls of Matthew's former nursery, France held beneath the shakily-gripped utensil his blue shawl, letting the soup drip onto it as you drank slowly. Warm, careful hands drew near and back as he relayed your meal, ferrying the spoon from bowl to mouth in silence. The others were hushed, poised and watching curiously as the man who appeared as a regnard missing his kits dabbed at your muzzle and fur with his favorite shawl. "I'll call Matthew tomorrow, and we'll talk. Set up a day to meet. Perhaps he'll help me nurse Remy here," he explained, the tension in his shoulders dropping away visibly.

After a long period in which the only sound consisted of breathing and your own yips as France patted along your back to check for injuries, the man scooped you into his warm arms as though welcoming home a long absent member of the family. "Mon petit renard, merci,4" the man muttered, holding you close while the soup and comfort drove away the fever that had settled over you during the night. "Merci de me rappeler de ce genre d'amour.5"

Translations:

1 I'm going to help you, my little fox.

2 forbidden.

3 my friends.

4 My little fox, thank you.

5 Thank you for reminding me of this kind of love.


	2. Chapter 2

In only a week you had settled into your new home with the Frenchman and his memories. The windowsill above the heater became your favorite place to watch the snow fall from the clouds in flakes or sleet, nestled in the cozy comfort of your crocheted blanket. This morning a sky tinged with peach greeted your sleepily-blinking eyes like a reflection of their own color. Excitement rode in a shiver down your back and to your downy, white-tipped tail as you kneaded the green scarf with your paws and rose to stretch. Under Francis' doting care, the ache and chill of the snowbank he'd found you in had melted away days ago and you were proud to have the hang of navigating through your new room. The powdery blue walls of the nursery were a better sanctuary than any den you'd dug in the past, and despite your best effort to bore a hole in them, they bore little but scratches and left telltale flakes of blue on your claws.

With a tall yawn and a flick of your tail you bounded down to the floor, landing with the barest whisper of your claws against the carpet that was cool and plush beneath the pads of your paws. Padding sleepily over to the nursery room door, which was held ajar by a small oaken stopper, you peeked out into the hallway, watching for the tall shadow of your keeper. Following the dawn, it had become customary for the Frenchman to come and 'wake' you with a call and breakfast. The meal itself had grown a bit over the last few days and shifted from strengthening broth to tartine with blueberry jam. There had also been a change in Francis' morning habits; for the first few days he would hurry to check on you and have only black coffee while he took care of your feeding, but he'd actually taken to preparing the softer-scented cafe au lait that you'd seen turning tepid on his coffee table on the day you arrived.

You sniffed the air slowly and were nearly halfway through the door in pursuit of the welcome smell of breakfast toasting when a sudden racket sent you bounding back inside to hide behind the structure. Something had crashed into the floor in the living room, by the sound of it, and you weren't eager to know whether something had been thrown or had fallen. The jarring image of Francis possibly having injured himself inserted itself into your mind and summoned your courage.

A heartbeat saw you standing firmly, hackles raised, at the edge of the richly-colored rug that was pinioned in place by the living room furniture. You stepped carefully over its threshold to keep your claws from tangling in the gold, braided strands that bordered its red base and stared, nose twitching at the sight, at a telephone receiver that was missing its back cover. Something else was out of place, on the screen beneath a crack that cleaved the top of the phone in two. There were only three numbers flashing on the digital slate, not nearly enough to complete a call. You'd seen Francis dialing it before, and he'd even shown you a day earlier how to put in the numbers, so you were sure of it.

Why would France have thrown the phone down halfway through a number? There wasn't a spider in sight, and it wasn't the day he'd said would be 'bill paying day' and to ignore any foul language spouted over the handset... Unless he'd plucked up the courage to phone the boy from the picture, his little brother. You'd been trying to exhibit your curiosity about Canada by dawdling around his pictures and the room with the maple leaf headboard, but as kind as the blond man had been to you, he wasn't forthcoming about his family. For an aching moment you wondered whether he had any at all, aside from his raucous friends and Matthew...

"Mon petit renard," came the familiar daylight chorus, for a moment burying your concern in the welcome warmth of its tone, though the voice cracked a little in surprise. Your eyes wandered from the phone's evidence and to the bright gaze of the Frenchman with telltale redness in his eyes. 'You tried,' you wanted to say, 'it's okay,' but of course you could only communicate this by nuzzling against the leg of his trousers and allowing him to stoop down and stroke your fiery pelt. With the ball of his thumb Francis wiped away the tear of empathy that had dampened your cheek. His smile was genuine as he patted your head. "Merci, mon renard, but do not cry for me," he pleaded, "I've been a foolish person, if you can believe it of me."

Minutes passed in the company of the sounds and smells that you'd become accustomed to over the past few days, and you tried to forget the ache in your heart at the weariness in your keeper's expression. France scraped the dark jam over your tartine only once he'd scraped away the blackened outer portion with the ridges of his favorite butter knife. Blueberries and coffee fought over your sense of smell, the scent of the latter dulled by milk and sugar that reassured you of Francis' state. Cafe au lait meant that at least he was thinking of himself a little... The clack of your plate against the softly-shined table where you sat pulled you back to the happier half of the morning, and you folded your tail over your hind feet as the Frenchman sat across from you with a napkin draped on his lap.

You'd licked your lips and hunkered down to eat when a soft sound pulled at your ears. It was a tapping from the front door, by the muffled echo of the initial rap, but it wasn't like the angry knocking of the Englishman or the self-confident 'let me in already' sound of Alfred's fist on the door. It was quiet and timid, so much so that beneath the crunch of his toasted breakfast, France didn't seem to have heard it. With a sigh at the tantalizing scent of the food that would have to wait, you stood up on all fours and yipped at your guardian, pointing your muzzle in the direction of the entry hall before letting out another soft bark. Warmth had just begun to seep into your paws, but you were willing to jump to the cold tile of the floor to egg him on if necessary.

Francis' brow furrowed for a moment as though he worried you had fleas or were hearing things. He swallowed the bite of tartine before moving, but dropped his napkin over his unfinished plate and stood regardless, patting you as he passed on his way to answer the door. You were at his heels in a bounding hop, and as there was no peephole on the front door, the two of you were equally shocked when it was open and a figure trundling what looked to be a large white teddy bear waved slightly. France nearly slammed the door in the boy's face as he tried to swiftly dab his eyes with the soft edge of his sleeve, and though you recognized the visitor, for a moment you were still with wonder. You'd thought that Matthew would be difficult to find, or at least avoidant of this house, but having him at Francis' doorstep only minutes after the Frenchman had tried to call the estranged brother, well that was either a miracle or some kind of fate.

Canada appeared as surprised at the sight of your tangerine fur as you were by his blonde hair and soft eyes. He didn't seem a tad rebellious, though nerves had him jittery and shaking a bit as a stiffly-reacting France invited him in. Everyone took a seat, yourself in the comfortable nook on the arm of Francis' chair while he sat silently beside you and gestured to the couch with a slightly looser hand. "What brings you here, Matthew?" he inquired, his emotion buried in calm conversationalism. Canada smiled bashfully again, hugging the bear to himself. "Well," the younger man responded, his voice the barest whisper of a fly caught in spider silk, "Kumajiro was worried since you didn't seem to notice me at the World Meetings lately, so I decided to come and visit home." France's hand twitched at the word 'home' and he appeared to be making a visible effort not to cross the room and embrace his brother, though confusion dropped his bright expression.

"You've been... going to the World Meetings?" Francis questioned with a hint of frantic guilt. "But mon frere, I did not see you. I believed you were avoiding me." Canada's eyes widened at once, and he shook his head more briskly than you'd thought him capable. "N-no...! I wouldn't have. I mean, I wouldn't have confronted you either, probably..." He smiled softly again and pointed to you, and your ears folded back at his gaze. "Actually, I ran into America yesterday and after rambling a bit about 'where ya been, long time no see' or something he told me you'd found this kit. So I also wanted to see if you'd like some... help?"

Francis' expression froze before turning to one of eager happiness, and your tail swished back and forth happily at the familial scene. "Of course. She is healed up, but le petit renar-" France halted in his speech as a hollow growl escaped your stomach and hung awkwardly in the air that was just losing its tension's hold on the four of you. With a chuckle, he admitted, "We did not finish dejeuner yet. I'll make extra if you would like to join us." He scooped you up in his arms and relayed your content form back to the table, where finally seated for breakfast you yawned and rubbed against Canada's sleeve as he passed. Wearing his soft smile, the young man offered you a leaf-shaped sweet from his pocket, which you first sniffed, black nose twitching at the familiar maple aroma, before taking it gently in your teeth to set on your breakfast plate. Chewing on toast and blueberry jam that stuck pleasantly in your fine whiskers, you watched Francis educate Matthew on the proper temperature for browning tartine as Kumajiro sat quietly on the counter and you wondered if he was animate or not.

Soon you were finished with your breakfast, and Matthew was sitting down to his at the table that filled his gaze with memories. France sat beside you this time, leaning by your ear to whisper, "Again, merci, mon petit renard... I wouldn't have been able to resolve this if your arrival hadn't brought mon frere here." This time his napkin was barely off the plate when a loud knocking that you'd earlier considered interrupted his meal. With a sigh Francis stood, looking glad of the stack of experimental toast as he tugged the door open for America, who invited himself in and was dragging England with him.

"Hey man! I was kicking ass in the neighborhood and decided me and Iggy should drop by for brunch since Matty was gonna be here!" the man explained loudly, offering a thumbs-up to no one in particular before sweeping into the kitchen to grab your attention and a slice of toast. "C'mon, France, is this it?!" he complained, waving a slice of tartine around like something less desirable. "It's so wimpy, not even French Toast!" Canada laughed quietly, a sound missed by the three that were nearly bickering over what made a good meal. You nudged Matthew's hand with your muzzle and locked your rose eyes with his violet, not only relieved but elated and curious over what time would bring to the family around this table.


End file.
